Thomas Bastard

The peasant Corus of his wealth does boast, Yet he’s scarce worth twice twenty pounds at most. I chanc’d to word once with this lowly swain, He called me base, and beggar in disdain. To try the truth hereof I rate myself, And cast the little count of all my wealth. See how much Hebrew, Greek, and Poetry, Latin Rhetoric, and Philosophy, Reading, and sense in sciences profound, All valued, are not worth forty pounds.

Walking the fields a wantcatcher I spied, To him I went, desirous of his game: Sir, have you taken wants? Yes, he replied, Here are a dozen, which were lately ta’en. Then you have left no more. No more? quoth he. Sir I can show you more: the more the worse; And to his work he went, but 'twould not be, For all the wants were crept into my purse. Farewell friend wantcatcher, since 'twill not be, Thou cannot catch the wants, but they catch me.

One said my book was like unto a coat, Of diverse colours black and red and white. I, bent to cross him, said he spoke by rote. For they in making rather are unlike. A coat, one garment made of many fleeces: My book, one meaning cut into many pieces.

Wotton, the country and the country swain, How can they yield a Poet any sense? How can they stir him up, or heat his vein? How can they feed him with intelligence? You have that fire which can a wit enflame, In happy London England’s fairest eye: Well may you Poets’ have of worthy name, Which have the food and life of Poetry. And yet the country or the town may sway, Or bear a part, as clowns do in a play.

I met a courtier riding on the plain, Well-mounted on a brave and gallant steed; I sat upon a jade, and spurred to my pain My lazy beast, whose tired sides did bleed: He saw my case, and then of courtesy Did rein his horse, and drew the bridle in, Because I did desire his company: But he corvetting way of me did win. What should I do, who was besteaded so? His horse stood still faster than mine could go.

Momus, to be a Poet Laureate, Has strained his wits through an iron grate. For he has rhymes and rhymes, and double strains, And golden verses, and all kinds of veins, Now to the press he presses hastily, To sell his friends stinking eternity. For who would be eternal in such fashion, To be a witness to his condemnation.

The little world, the subject of my muse, Is a huge task and labor infinite; Like to a wilderness or mass confuse, Or to an endless gulf, or to the night: How many strange Meanders do I find? How many paths do turn my straying pen? How many doubtful twilights make me blind, Which seek to limb out this strange All of men? Easy it were the earth to portray out, Or to draw forth the heavens’ purest frame, Whose restless course, by order whirls about Of change and place, and still remains the same. But how shall man’s, or manner’s, form appear, Which while I write, do change from what they were?

My little book: who will thou please, tell me? All which shall read thee? No that cannot be. Whom then, the best? But few of these are known. How shall thou know to please, thou know'st not whom? The meaner sort commend not poetry; And sure the worst should please themselves for thee: But let them pass, and set by most no store, Please thou one well, thou shall not need please more.

The welcome Sun from sea Freake is returned, And cheereth with his beams the naked earth, Which gains with his coming her apparel And had his absence six long months mourned. Out of her fragrant sides she sends to greet him The rashed primrose and the violet; While she the fields and meadows doth beset With flowers, and hangs the trees with pearl to meet him. Amid this hope and joy she doth forget, To kill the hemlock which doth grow too fast, And chill the adder making too much haste, With his black sons revived with the heat; Till summer comes with diverse colours clad, Much like my Epigrams both good and bad.